First Meetings
by Willow-41z
Summary: A series of stories depicting different ways in which Éomer and Lothíriel may have encountered each other for the first time.
1. the Kiss

_A/N: _First Meetings_ was written as a birthday present for Lialathuveril. It comprises six stories and a series of drabbles, which will be updated on a bi-daily basis. Lady Bluejay graciously betaed the anthology._

_-_

Lothíriel closed her eyes and leaned into the kiss, her breath hitching in her throat at the feel of warm soft lips pressing against hers and gentle hands caressing her neck and back. She knew it was wrong, to be wantonly kissing a man she barely knew, in the open where anyone could see, but it felt so _good_ to be held. It had been so long since she had been held...

"Princess Lothíriel!" The sudden bark made her partner pull back in shock, and her own heart leapt with adrenaline. But she looked defiantly up into the angry face of the King of Rohan. "_What_ are you doing?" he demanded.

She tilted her chin up, looked from him to her partner and back to him, and stated the obvious. "Kissing."

His eyes narrowed. "So I gathered," he rumbled, and looked towards the other man. The King started forward, but Lothíriel stepped with him, staying between the two men; he looked down in surprise and vexation.

"You do not need to shield me--" the man behind her said.

"Go," she said, without looking back. "If the King of Rohan has a quarrel with me, he can discuss it with me." She felt her expression harden as she kept her gaze locked with the angry Rohir. "Go." After a tense moment, she heard footsteps. The King stepped forward as if to go after her companion, but she stayed where she was, blocking his path. His eyes flicked down to her, then back up.

"I will deal with you," he promised the other man, "later." There was a tense silence as they waited for the other man to disappear past the battlements, and Lothíriel felt her heart beating forcefully in her chest. Then the King looked back down at her, and instinctively she tilted her chin up even further as she stared back at him. She couldn't tell in the dim light whether he was disgusted or just displeased. "That was not fitting behavior for a princess."

"Who are you to judge my behavior?" she retorted. "I do not recall asking you to do it." Even to her ears, her words sounded childish.

"I am a friend of your father's," he responded instantly. "I would not see his daughter dishonor her family by acting... with extreme impropriety."

"Dishonor!" She let out a snort of mirthless laughter and turned away so he could not see the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. "Yes, honor is very important." Lothíriel could not keep the sardonicism out of her voice. "And duty." She did not know whether she felt more like laughing or crying, but either would be hysterical. "But when they are all that is left to me, it will be cold comfort."

"I am glad you recognize what you owe," the king said, but his voice sounded less certain now. "But--"

"If I admit to being wanton and shameless," she said, and was frightened when

she barely recognized her own voice. "Can we consider this _discussion_ over?"

"You mock me." She could hear just by the tone of his voice that the King's eyes had narrowed again. "If your father will not speak to you--"

"Oh, yes, my father has been very lacking in that regard." She knew she sounded bitter.

"Obviously so, if you kiss a stranger on the battlements of Minas Tirith in full view of everyone below!"

"He is not a stranger!" she said. "I met him at dinner." She ignored the king's disbelieving snort. "And he-- he was willing to talk to me." She swallowed. "He was willing to listen."

"He was willing to do quite a bit more than that, I'd say," the king said harshly.

"He was not!" Lothíriel retorted. "He is one of the king's knights, he has honor!"

"One of the king's knights?"

She realized she'd inadvertently revealed more than she'd intended. "You will not seek him out!" she insisted. "You will not try to get him into trouble."

"He deserves it, for taking advantage of the prince's daughter. If he is one of Aragorn's knights, he has a duty--"

She whirled. "I am sick of duty, and he is a better man than you!" A lump was forming in her throat, but she swallowed hard and forced it back as the king of Rohan's astonishment faded into anger. "He saw I was upset, and he was just trying to comfort me, and you-- all you do is stand there and badger me and you have _no idea_--" The sobs tore from her throat and she spun around again, too proud to let him see her crying. Sliding to her knees on the cold stone, she rested her head against the low wall. "I just wanted to be held," she choked, speaking only to herself now. "I did not mind if that meant I had to be kissed as well."

She waited for the sound of retreating footsteps, and when none came she bowed her head, imagining the king staring down at her in disgust at the thought that her tears were meant to sway him. At least he would have nothing further to say to her. But though she tried to deny it, the thought of him telling her father what he had seen sent a cold, sick feeling through her. _It is too late to change anything now. I will not plead with him_. She buried her face in her hands as fresh sobs wracked her body.

The touch on her elbow made her start. "My lady," he said, his voice much gentler. "It was not my intention to reduce you to tears. Will you forgive me?"

She shook her head. "You were not wrong," she said, striving to keep her voice even. "You were right. Even if duty and honor are all that remain to me... I must uphold them." No matter how desperate she was for some simple human comfort. She sniffled and buried her face more deeply in her hands.

"No," he said. "I was wrong. I did not see that you were hurting." Startled, she dropped her hands and looked at him. He was kneeling beside her, and the anger had vanished from his expression, leaving only compassion. "Will you not tell me what is wrong?"

No one else had noticed that anything was wrong, not her father, nor her brothers, nor her cousin. Yet this man, this King she barely knew, had realized within moments of speaking to her. After a minute, she dried her eyes with the back of her hands. "Do you know how I spent the war?"

"Your father left you in charge of Dol Amroth."

Lothíriel nodded. "The city was full of refugees from Dor-en-Ernil," she whispered, and was quiet for a moment. "There was so much fear. Every day we heard fresh news of corsair raids, and the people would panic. It was so hard to keep order. When they are frightened... people will do horrible things to each other." She closed her eyes, trying to blot out the memories. "Every night I lay awake thinking that if the corsairs came, we did not have the strength to defend... and every morning I looked around, wondering if anything would still be there by nightfall." Her voice began to shake. "I was terrified. I knew I would fail my people if the enemy came, and see them all die, and yet they trusted me to lead them." She felt hot tears roll down her face again. "I was so alone." Her throat began to close. "Then when I came to Minas Tirith... my family was too busy to listen to me. They are taken up with celebrations, but I cannot forget the war." Her voice broke. "I am still alone." She pressed her hands to her eyes, but the king gently lifted her wrists away and pulled her forward so she was resting against his chest. He put his arms around her, and the simple human contact broke the last of her barriers, and she began to sob silently.

His hand moved gently on her back. "Forgive me if I am forward," he whispered, but his hold did not slacken, and she buried her face in his cloak as her body shook. All the grief and fear and worry of the past months, that she had kept bottled inside, poured out of her as she cried in the king's arms.

Finally her tears slowed. "You must think me weak," she said softly, turning her head so he would hear her.

"No." His voice was a rumble against her ear. "I think you very strong. It is harder to wait while someone decides your fate than to decide your own fate. To have kept so many safe with little experience and no guidance... would have crushed another."

"But I did not keep them safe!" Her voice was anguished. "If the corsairs had landed I would have been helpless! The streets would have run red with blood."

"But the corsairs did not land. They did not strike the most tempting target of the southern coast. Why is that?"

"Providence," she whispered.

She felt his head shake. "No. They thought you were strong." She looked up at him. "If you had not kept order in the city, if it had dissolved into chaos, then assuredly they would have landed."

Lothíriel blinked, and sat up, and considered this carefully. Finally she whispered, "Thank you for that."

"I am only telling the truth."

She looked at where her head had rested. "I've made a dreadful mess of your clothes," she said abashedly.

"It's not as bad as horse snot."

Startled, she stared up at him, and then caught the hint of warmth in his eyes. She laughed softly; it was the first time she'd been able to do so for weeks. The knot inside of her, already loosened by her outpouring, dissolved a little further. Then she felt her cheeks heat. "You were right to chastise me, earlier," she said. "I... I beg your pardon for what I said."

He shook his head. "You should not barter your lips for comfort," he said softly. "You should not have to." He extended his hand, palm up. "My lady, I am here for you if you need me."

She felt tears rise in her eyes again, but this time at his unwarranted kindness. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you." She took his hand, and his grip tightened on hers, as if sealing a pact.

She was afraid that he would leave, but he continued to sit quietly next to her, his very presence comforting. She looked out over the battlements at the stars shining in the clear sky. They were another comfort, and between the two she found she could talk about the war without her throat tightening. "The waiting was horrible," she said softly. "No one knew if any of our men were still alive, or if we would wake up to find the world enslaved and an orc army on our borders." She shivered. "I knew even if we won, there was no guarantee any of our forces would have survived. And I did not even know how I was going to feed everyone for much longer."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty," Lothíriel said.

"When I was twenty I was still a common Rider. I could not have done what you did." He stared out at the stars. "I am not sure I can do it for my own people, now."

"I think you can," she said quietly.

After a moment he looked back at her. "I hope you are right." His thumb rubbed over her fingers.

There was a comfortable silence, and then he said, "Eowyn was charged to keep Dunharrow and lead the remnant of our people."

Lothíriel had not heard that before. "But she was on the Pelennor Fields."

"Yes," he said. "She left her charge. She thought there was no hope, and so she rode to her death."

"But--" Lothíriel was astonished. "But she slew the Witch King! She was valiant!"

"Yes," Éomer said again. "She did mighty feats of arms. She was strong in one way, yet weak in another."

"Are you... upset with her?"

"For abandoning her duty? I cannot be, for I understand too well why she did it. For putting herself in danger..." He sighed, very softly. "I will never forget what I felt when I thought she was dead." It was her turn now to hold his hand more tightly. "And I will never forget what I felt when your father told me she was not," he added. "I felt as if my heart had come back to life." He shook his head. "I am not upset with her."

"I did not think there was any hope, either," Lothíriel said after a few moments.

"And yet you did not give into despair. That is a different kind of strength," he said. "No less than Eowyn's." After a moment he added, "Shall we make songs about you, too?"

Lothíriel could not help laughing. "Lothíriel the City-Keeper?"

"If you like. I'm sure Legolas could find a tune for it."

"He has a voice like-- like running water," she agreed.

They sat in silence again, and then he asked, "Will you come riding with me tomorrow, my lady?"

"I would like that," she said softly. Sitting with him, she was more at ease than she had been in weeks; and if her demons came back in the middle of the night, it was still worth it. "I--"

"Lothíriel!" She jerked her head around to see her brother Amrothos coming towards them. "Are you there?"

"Yes," she called back after a second's hesitation. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," he said, sounding surprised. "I just wanted to know where you were." She was surprised, too; he'd never come looking for her before.

Beside her, the king had stiffened. "I would like a word with you," he said to the new arrival.

Lothíriel shook her head. "Not about me," she said softly. "Please."

"Your family should not have left you alone."

"I think... I think maybe I can tell him," she said. "Tonight."

Éomer hesitated. "As you wish, then."

"Éomer?" Amrothos asked. "Are you with her?" Lothíriel released Éomer's hand as he came up beside them, and looked at the moon and reluctantly rose to her feet.

"I should take my leave, my lord," she said. "It's very late."

"Until tomorrow, then," Éomer said.

She stepped forward. "Thank you," she whispered. "For everything."

Éomer took her hand again and gently raised it to his lips. "I am at your service, my lady."


	2. Oops

_A/N: If this concept seems familiar, it's because credit is due to Lady Bluejay. This story was inspired by a description of her fic_ Dreams Come True.

_Also, my hard drive failed this afternoon, so updates will be irregular until further notice._

-

Éomer couldn't sleep, or rather, found insomnia a preferable alternative. Whenever he closed his eyes, he heard in his dreams the cries of his people as he led them to death on the Pelennor Field, to be trampled by mumakil or cut down by--

He frowned, and reached for his sword belt, belatedly realizing he had not dreamt these cries. They seemed to be those of men startled rather than upset. Perhaps it was only those still under the care of the Healers, calling out in their dreams, but a walk would clear his mind, anyway.

The noise seemed to be coming from the nearby riverbank; as he got closer he recognized the voice of his captain, Éothain. Éomer frowned again: was his guard playing a late game of _halatafl_? If so, he would have to have a word them; it was not like them to be so loud as to wake others. Perhaps they were drunk.

He rounded the last tent between himself and the slow-moving Anduin, and his eyes widened in horrified shock. It was indeed the members of his guard who had been making the noise, but they were not playing a board game. They were in a half-circle by the bank; in their midst, with her back to the water, he could see a beautiful young woman clumsily waving a sword to keep them at a distance.

"_ÉOTHAIN_!" he roared. "_What _are you_ doing_!" He crossed the distance in three strides as his captain, who had taken a step forward towards the woman, his hands spread placatingly, jerked around, his eyes widening.

"My lord! We--" Éomer ignored the rest of what he had to say, brushing past him. He had seen the woman's wrist wobbling, and knew she was about to drop the sword. He grabbed for it before she could hurt herself or anyone else-- she swung it wildly, not towards him, but the weight dragged the point towards his arm-- seeing their monarch threatened, his men drew their swords and closed the circle-- she whirled, her eyes wide with panic, raising the sword to defend herself--

"_Stop!"_ he bellowed, and everyone froze. Moving slowly, he took the woman's arm, guiding it back down to her side to let the point of the sword rest in the dirt. His men backed up and sheathed their weapons, still eyeing the woman in front of him warily. "Just stay calm," he murmured to her. "Do not make any sudden movements or they will think you are attacking me." She nodded, and he could see her pulse beating frantically in her throat. "Don't worry. I won't let them hurt you." He turned towards his captain. "Éothain," he said, and knew that his voice was cold and deadly as steel. "Kindly explain why you and your men were threatening this woman." For his captain's long, faithful service, he owed him a chance to explain-- but only one.

"We were not threatening her, Éomer King," Éothain protested in Rohirric. "Not until she drew on you." At the look on his king's face, he hurried on. "We saw her walking by the river, and we thought her… eh… company might cheer you up. So we asked her if she would come with us to the king, and she said she would be happy to. But I did not know how clean she was, so I thought we had better bring her here."

Éomer had listened to all this with a growing sense of horror, and now he interrupted. "Éothain--" He shook his head. "Never mind." He had a feeling it was only going to get worse, and if he said something now, he might shortly regret not using stronger words.

"She seemed a little confused, but certainly willing to come with us," Éothain continued, "until we told her she could leave her dress on that rock to wash." He pointed to the rock. "Then Byrhta offered to help her--"

Éomer turned to glare at Byrhta. He had the grace to look sheepish. "Sorry, my lord," he said. "But look at her, can you blame me?"

Éomer looked at the woman in front of him, very thankful they were having this conversation in Rohirric. From the quality of her clothing she was obviously not a camp follower, and the stamp of her features showed her to be Gondorian. And there was something familiar about her-- _Oh, no_... _"Yes_," he growled. "I can."

Éothain hurriedly continued. "-- Then she grabbed his sword and yelled for help. I was trying to convince her to put the sword down when you appeared. My lord, I swear, we meant her no harm. I don't know why she panicked. She said she'd come willingly, and none of us would have laid a hand on her." He looked at Éomer pleadingly. "My lord, you know none of us would even think of taking a woman against her will."

Éomer sighed softly. "Éothain, much as I appreciate your concern, I do not need you soliciting whores on my behalf. If I wanted one, I would find one."

"We were just trying to help," his captain insisted stubbornly. "She's very beautiful, my lord, we thought she could make you forget your cares for a while."

Éomer rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Éothain," he said quietly. "You have no idea who this is, do you?"

His Captain shook his head. "No, m'lord. I thought she was a harlot."

Éomer closed his eyes briefly. "Decidedly _not,_" he said. "This is Lothíriel. Lothíriel of Dol Amroth."

Had the situation not been so serious, he would have been interested in how the color literally drained out of his captain's face, leaving it a sickly shade of grey. "The Prince's daughter?" Éomer nodded.

Éothain began to swear fluently, and Éomer was impressed by the depth and creativity of his knowledge, even after years as a Marshal. The Captain went for almost thirty seconds without repeating himself, and then he turned towards the woman. But Éomer stopped him. "Never mind," he said. "Go find Prince Amrothos."

Éothain's eyes widened, and he swallowed. Getting to the prince's tent would require passing unseen through the Gondorian camp, but Éothain knew better to ask Éomer for mercy. He turned and vanished into the night. The rest of his men shifted on their feet, and Éomer looked at them tiredly.

"The rest of you-- go," he said. "Just go." They looked at each other shamefacedly, and then faded into the darkness.

Éomer was left with the Princess of Dol Amroth. Her eyes were wide, and her wrist was trembling from the exertion required to hold the sword, for the point had crept up during the conversation; her weight was on the balls of her feet, and she gave the general impression of a startled predator, ready to either run away or gut you. "Well, my lady?" he said gently, shifting into Westron.

She stared at him silently. He nodded to the sword. "Will you put that down?"

"Will I be safe?" she countered, and her voice was defiant and trembling.

"You have my word."

"As king?"

"As Éomer of Rohan," he said. "But you may have my word as king, if you like."

Slowly, she nodded, and put the sword down. "What-- what happened?"

He did not want to insult her in the telling, but the Rohirrim spoke no lies. "They mistook you for a camp follower, and they were asking you to come to me," he said bluntly. "But they wanted you to clean up first."

Her eyes widened. "They thought I was a-- a whore?"

"I'm sorry," he told her, though since he had not been involved, his apology would not mean much. "It was probably because you were not far from where the camp followers have their tents." Her eyes widened, and she looked across the river. "It's an unavoidable part of an army," he said.

"Yes," she said. "I knew they were here. I just didn't know they were so close."

"I'm sorry for the behavior of my guard," he said. "I will--" Well, he'd have to do something about them. "But, lady, know that you were in no danger until the end. They would not have touched you."

After a moment, she nodded again. "The Rohirrim have honor."

_If a rather skewed sense of morality_, he thought wryly. "Would you like to go back to my tent to wait for your brother?" he asked, aware of the awkward irony of what he was asking. "People will talk if they see us here, in the middle of the night."

"Will they not also talk if they see us going there?"

He shook his head. "The tents block our walkways from sight. There will be nothing to say I did not escort you back to the Dol Amroth contingent. And you will be there in a few minutes, anyway." She looked down at the sword in her hand. "How did you get that away from him?"

"I-- I just grabbed the handle and pulled, like I've done with my brothers' swords," she said. "The man was-- distracted." Her cheeks darkened in the moonlight. "And I don't think he knew quite what to do." Éomer thought she was probably right; even his guard, handpicked from his Riders, would have no idea how to handle an erstwhile woman combatant. The surprise alone had probably allowed her to grab the sword unhindered. "What-- do I do with it now?"

"What would you like to do with it?"

She shook her head. "It is not mine. I have no use for it."

Éomer considered. "You would not be outside your rights to ransom it," he said, but she was already shaking her head.

"I could not do that. It belongs to your guard."

"Then if you wish, I will return it to him." After a moment, she nodded, and carefully extended it to him, the blade turned away from both of them. He took it. "Along with a very, _very_ stern lecture," he added. The lecture would not begin to touch the consequences for his guard, but he wanted to make sure they realized the seriousness of what they had done. "They are supposed to be a band of warriors, not unruly children needing punishment," he muttered.

"They seem very... loyal," Lothíriel offered.

Éomer snorted. "Yes, they are loyal." He noticed a group of women gathering across the river, giving them curious looks, and he offered his arm. "Shall we go, my lady?" She looked uncomfortable, and muttered something about not wanting to interrupt. He blinked, confused, and then clarity dawned. "My lady," he said dryly, "despite the actions of my guard, I am actually _not_ in the habit of soliciting whores for company. I promise you my tent is unoccupied."

She blushed even more deeply. "I beg your pardon," she said.

Éomer relented; she had been through enough already, and anyway her assumption was, unfortunately, justified, given what had just happened. "I took no offense," he assured her. She inclined her head, and gave him her arm; without further ado they turned away from the river in the direction of his tent.

He let her go first into the tent and tied the flap back so it would stay open, trying to reduce the necessary awkwardness of the situation. There weren't many places for her to sit, only a few rough cushions scattered about; in the back half of the tent was his cot, but he wasn't about to suggest that seat to her. But she knelt gracefully, and he sat down cross-legged across from her. "Would you like some wine?" he asked. If her nerves were still shaken, a little wine would help settle them. She accepted, and he poured the golden liquid into a pair of rough earthenware mugs.

"Why did you give me your word as Éomer of Rohan rather than as king?" she

asked between slow sips.

He thought for a moment, trying to put his ideas into coherent words. "I am... newly come to the throne." He looked away for a moment. _Would that you were here with me, Uncle_. With a shake of his head, he turned back to the present: "I do not know what may happen; I may lose the kingship as suddenly as I came to it. But whatever comes to pass, I will always be Éomer of Rohan."

She nodded. "That is... a faithful point of view." He must have looked puzzled, for she explained. "Faithful to your land.

He shrugged. "It is not a question of loyalty. Rohan is a part of me."

There was a short silence as she looked around the tent. Then she said, "You know the fox game?"

He followed her gaze to the game board set out of the way by the wall of the tent. "Yes. Théodred--" he swallowed "-- Théodred learned it in Gondor, and taught Éowyn and I. Do you play?" She nodded. "Would you like a game?"

So they played _halatafl_, or the fox game as the Gondorians called it, on the crude wooden board with unpainted stones as pieces. He was glad to see that all lingering effects of the earlier encounter seemed to have left Lothíriel as she concentrated on the game, biting her lower lip in a way that was rather endearing. He couldn't help smiling at the unusual situation: he would not have thought he'd find himself playing a board game with the lady of Dol Amroth in the middle of the night. But, to tell the truth, he was enjoying himself; she was a very good player.

Looking down at the board, he blinked; apparently she was a better player than him. While he'd been distracted, his pieces had been surrounded. "Your game, my lady," he said, still surprised. "You play very well."

She smiled. "Thank you."

"Did your brothers teach you?"

"No." The smile slid off her face. "My cousin did. Boromir."

"It seems we both learned from cousins who are now gone," he murmured. "I knew him, though not well. He was a good man."

She nodded. "I know." She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, looking young and vulnerable in her sadness. He wished he could say something to make her smile again. "I miss him."

"I'm sorry," he said simply.

With an effort she recollected herself a moment later. "Is your sister coming to join you?"

"I don't know," Éomer admitted. "I have written and asked her to, but... she sends no response." He hesitated. "I'm afraid she may be still too badly hurt," he admitted.

"My cousin-- my other cousin, Faramir-- writes about her," Lothíriel said.

"Oh?"

"Not much, just that he has made her acquaintance. But from his messages it does not sound as if she is still suffering much from her injuries."

Éomer was puzzled. If Éowyn was fit to travel, then what was keeping her away? A nagging suspicion grew in his mind and he looked away so Lothíriel could not guess his thoughts. Instead he said, "Would you like more wine?"

She shook her head.

"Another victory, then?"

She smiled at him again. "Will you make me work harder for this one?"

They were only a moment into their second game when Amrothos appeared beyond the open tent flap. "Lothíriel!" he said, looking startled. "What are you doing here?" Lothíriel looked at Éomer, her eyes widening a little.

"She went for a walk and my guard mistook her for a camp follower," he said bluntly. "There was a misunderstanding, so I sent Éothain for you and brought her back here to wait."

Amrothos's eyes had narrowed. "Define... 'misunderstanding'," he said softly. So Éomer sketched out for him, in a few sentences, what had happened. He was careful to omit Byrhta's name, though not his actions. When he finished, the Prince had gone very still. He looked at his sister. "Lothíriel, are you all right?" It was not a tone that brooked demurral.

"I am fine," she said, looking up and meeting his eyes with open honesty. "I took no hurt." Amrothos lost a little of his sudden resemblance to a vengeful statue, and Éomer thought it was time to speak up again.

"Allow me to point out," he said, "that I told Éothain to fetch you, in particular, because I thought you were the least likely to gut me at this point."

It worked; Amrothos's face and posture relaxed "I don't think any of us would have gutted you, Éomer," he said. "Lothíriel would have had to carry the poor unfortunate's head back to our father." He turned serious again. "What are you going to do with your guard?"

"Require them to beg Lothíriel's pardon, for one thing," Éomer said. "And prohibit them from any liberty until she grants it." Amrothos nodded. "And I believe," he added, "that I will make them swear an oath not to solicit any paid company for a period of... oh, some weeks."

The youngest lord of Dol Amroth smiled dryly. "Your men will call you cruel."

Lothíriel looked from one of them to the other. "Is that a harsh punishment?"

The two men locked gazes. _I'm not explaining that_, Amrothos seemed to be saying, so Éomer did. "For some of them, it certainly will be." It was a strict restriction; but he knew they would keep to it, out of loyalty to him and their own honor. "But a fair one all the same."

Amrothos touched his sister's shoulder. "We should get back before we are missed. Unless," he added, "you feel like explaining all this to our father." Her eyes widened, and her gaze darted to Éomer. "Don't worry," Amrothos said to both of them. "He won't hear of it from me."

Éomer followed them to the tent flap. "Thank you," he said seriously to Imrahil's son. "For taking this like the misunderstanding it was, and not..."

"A diplomatic incident?" Amrothos finished. Éomer nodded. "I have no desire to expose my sister to embarrassment, or to destroy good men over a mistake. But... I am not the one you should thank for reacting reasonably."

"I know," Éomer returned. He turned to Lothíriel, and took her hand. "I am sorry," he said quietly.

She looked up at him. "You have nothing to apologize for, my lord. You rescued me."

"I am sorry it happened at all. And I thank you for staying calm."

"It was the most reasonable course of action," she said.

Éomer smiled at her gallantry. "My lady, you are true-hearted," he said, and couldn't resist raising her hand to his lips. She blushed; Amrothos raised his eyebrow, and Éomer raised his right back.

He let go of her hand. "Good night Amrothos, Lothíriel." Amrothos nodded in return, but Lothíriel swept a curtsy, smiling up at him through her eyelashes.

When they had gone he let down the tent flap and put away the wine skin, draining the liquid remaining in both mugs. He started to clear off the _halatafl_ board, but hesitated, and then let it be. Maybe he could persuade her to come back and finish the game.

Finally he made it back to his cot and lay down with a weary groan. Maybe now he'd be able to sleep. But sleep still would not come. Instead of gruesome images, though, he kept seeing the lady of Dol Amroth: her defiant bravery as she held the sword by the riverbank, her readiness to forgive him, the way she'd looked as she sat across from him playing _halatafl _as if it were the most natural thing in the world, the way she blushed... the way she'd smiled...

Maybe a walk would clear his mind.


	3. Weep No More

A soft, indistinct sound stilled her footsteps. Elsewhere in the Houses of Healing all was chaos, but this wing had filled up many hours ago and was now quiet, its occupants drugged into healing sleep. She hesitated in the near doorway before looking inside. A tall golden-haired man sat by the bedside of the woman, his head bowed; though his back was to her, she could have sworn he cried.

"My lord, what ails you?" she asked softly. He jerked around and she saw that she was right. Tears mingled with dirt and grime, darkening his face with streaks of mud. "Are you hurt?"

"No," he said hoarsely, and cleared his throat. "No."

He didn't require one of the healers; she should have left him and continued with her duties. But her compassion for this proud man made her stay. "What is wrong? Can I help you?"

"I don't know.Can you raise the dead or plant hope where there is none?" He sounded bitter, and she wondered. "I doubt you can, no matter how great your skills, Mistress Healer."

"Oh, I'm not a healer. I'm just helping here." She took another step inside the door, and then realized who he was. Of course; this was the Lady Éowyn's room. It would be her brother by her bedside. "You are the King of the Rohirrim."

His eyes closed, and his expression hardened. "I am the leader of the Rohirrim," he corrected quietly.

Her heart contracted at his tone and she realized her tactlessness. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "My father... told me of your uncle's death. He said... he was valiant." She knew her words were inadequate; but she wondered if mere words could express the awesome feats of the Rohírrim and their mighty king.

"Yes," said the man she now knew to be Éomer King, or Lord Éomer since he disclaimed that title. "He was very valiant." He turned and stared to the east, as if he could see through the stone of the city to the blood-soaked fields beyond. His face was sad, and she felt tears rising in her own eyes in empathy for his grief. Then he raised his head. "Your father?"

"Prince Imrahil."

He frowned. "You are the Prince's daughter?" She nodded, and he seemed confused, but looked too exhausted to continue the subject.

"My lord," she said gently after a few moments, "I cannot raise your kin, but may I not find you some supper and a place to lay your head for the night? It is very late, and you look hungry and weary."

"I do not want to leave my sister. She may wake again."

"Then I will bring food and bedding to you here," she said.

He hesitated, and then nodded. "I thank you, lady."

The fires in the kitchen were still roaring, tended tirelessly by cooks with deep shadows under their eyes. The wounded were still being brought off the Pelennor Fields, or persuaded to come in by their comrades, and those who were well enough to eat were ravenous. It took her little time to assemble a tray of stew, bread, honey, and cheese and cold ale from the basements, and then she returned to the upper room.

He was staring at his sister when she came in, and she hesitated to disturb him. But the food was growing cold, and finally she ventured to say, "The healers say she will recover, my lord, now that the King has tended her."

She'd startled him, but he did not look up. After a moment he murmured, in a voice so quiet she could barely understand him, "It is not her body I fear for."

"My lord?" she asked gently.

He shook his head and seemed to try to put away his concerns. "It is not your

worry."

His eyes widened visibly when she put the dishes on the table, and he swallowed. "May I sup with you?" she asked, indicating the second bowl. "I have not eaten, either, since..." She couldn't remember her last meal. All she'd been able to choke down in the dark, grim morning had been three spoonfuls of gruel and a glass of milk, and the noon hour had passed long ago.

"Please." He gestured to the table. "This is... very kind, lady."

She protested his compliment. "I could do no less." Next to the plates, on the table, was the bowl of hot water that she had filled on her way back to the room; careful to keep from splashing, he scrubbed his hands and his face. The scent of the lavender drifted across the table, but the water promptly turned grey. When he wiped his face, the cloth, too, gained black streaks. He looked at it, shrugged, put it aside and then hesitated. She wondered why until he gestured again.

"Will you not break bread first?"

Inclining her head, she broke off a small chunk and passed the rest to him. The stew was as rich and hearty as it smelled, laden with lentils, winter vegetables, and the herbs the healers used to give strength and speed healing. She thought the meat was goat; some of the herd, now kept in the courtyard of the empty house next door, must have been slaughtered to feed the warriors as well as relieve crowding.

He was famished, and she did not trouble him with conversation as he steadily worked his way through the stew, the cheese, and most of the loaf of bread. "Shall I get more?" she asked when he had pushed aside the empty bowl.

He shook his head. "Please don't trouble yourself."

"It's no trouble. I have to go back downstairs anyway, for the bedding. I was able to find blankets but all our sheets are having to be boiled, because some of the warriors have lice." She realized she was chattering; surely he did not want to know about lice. But she had seen her mother use such a tactic on her father a thousand times, using gentle unexceptionable talk to ease the horrors of battle.

He hesitated, and without waiting for an answer she took his bowl and went to the kitchens. Besides the stew and more bread, she took a handful of apples and old carrots, and then stopped at the drying room on her way back for an armful of clean, fresh-smelling linens. She wondered, belatedly, about the possibility that he had lice, as well, but decided it did not matter. It did not matter at all.

While she made up the unoccupied bed in the room, the second bowl of stew vanished as quickly as the first had. She took the apples and carrots out of the pockets of her apron and deposited them on the table. "I thought you might like them for your horse," she said in response to his questioning look.

His brow furrowed. "I do not even know where he is. A boy led him away... before the gates of the city. I have not seen him since the end of the battle, many hours ago."

"Then I shall find him for you, if you wish. There are enough boys begging for tasks." She stepped out into the corridor and went into the next wing, where she found one such boy. "Find where the King of Rohan's horse is being kept," she told him.

When she returned, his brow was furrowed, and he said again, "You are very kind, lady."

She shook her head. "I am not kind."

"You have said that twice now. Why?"

"Because... you need help, and I can give it. That is not kindness, that is... that is decency."

He was silent for a moment, then he said, "Whatever you call it, I thank you for it."

"Whatever is in my power to render, I shall do for you," she said quietly.

"Why are you here if you are not a healer?" He broke off a piece of bread.

"I refused to be sent away," she said simply. "Most of the other women left with the children and the elderly, but they have gone south where the corsairs threaten. I preferred to take my chances here. Besides, if Minas Tirith had fallen... no other refuge would have stood."

"Then who rules your city, if you and all your brothers are here?"

"My aunt. My father's eldest sister. She is very brave, and fears little. Men call her Emeldir, and I do not think they jest." He nodded, but a shadow crossed his face and he looked back at where his sister lay on the bed, sleeping quietly. "The Lady will be all right, my lord," she said softly. "The healers have said so."

"Have they?" He sounded bitter.

"Éomer?" The voice was faint but clear.

Instantly he was at her side. "I'm here, Éowyn. Have we bothered you?"

"We?" She looked around. "No." Carefully, she reached up and traced the lines of his face. "You should take some rest," she whispered.

"Éowyn..." His voice was choked as he stroked her hair. But his sister sighed, and closed her eyes again.

She had retreated to the doorway to give them their privacy. Now, staring at his broad back, she ventured, "Is there aught I may do for you, lord?"

"Leave me." The words were harsh, hoarse and uneven. His shoulders shook.

She disobeyed. She could not leave him to weep alone with his wounded sister

and his many ghosts, not after a day of heartbreaking, kinstealing battle. Instead she lingered just inside the door, wishing she had the courage to go to his side and dry his tears. He whispered words in his own tongue, and she thought some of them were names.

Finally he laid his hand on his sister's forehead and then stepped away to move the chair. He glanced up and saw her. "You are still here."

"I could not leave."

"You make a habit of this?"

"Yes." Before he could respond, she gestured to the other bed. "My lord, I know you are tired. Will you trust me to sit up with your sister?"

Grey eyes met her own and she was examined thoroughly by a keen, penetrating gaze. She felt as if he could read her thoughts. After what seemed like a very long time, he inclined his head. "Again I must thank you." He seemed, almost, startled by his own decision.

"You owe me no thanks. Had you and your kin not come when they did I would be dead by now."

"If you will not take my thanks, do not speak of that." He sounded bitter again. "We paid a high price for our oaths. Yet... we cannot regret them."

"Is that what bothers you?" The words were out before she had time to consider them.

He turned to face her fully. "What?"

"That," she said softly, a little daunted. "That if you had known all that was going to happen, you would still choose to do it."

There was a long pause. "Perhaps." The admission seemed to take a lot of effort on his part. "We could do no other."

She glanced at the other bed, and wondered how to steer him towards it. As if he had read her thoughts he turned and went to it, only to halt at the sight of the crisp, snowy sheets. "I will dirty these."

"My lord, do you think we care about our linens when we are grateful to have our lives?" she said. "Please, just rest." She was glad when he sat down on the bed, for she was almost certain that he would not have the strength to get up again. She was right; his movements as he pulled off his boots were weary with slowness. When he had taken off his tunic he stretched out, nearly filling the length of the bed, and within thirty seconds his breathing was deep and even.

She stifled a yawn. It was the early hours of the morning and she had been up since sunrise, or the time of sunrise, anyway. The day's events were a whirl of great deeds in her head; but, oh, how magnificent the horns of the Rohirrim had sounded, blowing bravely at the dawning of day. The sound had sent shivers down her spine and brought tears to her eyes, because she had known that that was no orc-sound. She did not think she would ever be able to hear a horn again without remembering.

Hearing someone pass by outside, she took the boots and the tunic and gave them to a boy returning with an empty tray. "Take these to be cleaned," she said, "and mended if you can find anyone to do it. And look for a clean shirt to fit the tunic. Then bring them back here." He nodded and hurried off.

She went back to her vigil. She had promised to watch over the Lady Éowyn, but she had another charge asleep in the far bed. By some mercy no dreams troubled him, and his face was peaceful. She was grateful, now, that her steps had brought her by this room; otherwise, she knew, he would have sat until dawn, alone and indifferent to his own needs, with only his grim memories and dark thoughts to bear him company. Now, perhaps, though she was no healer, she had granted him a measure of comfort.

In this way, Lothíriel kept watch over the two siblings until the new day dawned.


	4. Communication

"Erchirion, I don't want to meet him in front of a bunch of people!" Lothíriel realized she had sped up in her frustration.

"But it won't be a bunch." Her brother sounded befuddled by her reaction. "You and Éomer, and Father and our king, and Amrothos and Elphir and I, and possibly Faramir. And Lady Éowyn." Lothíriel slowed a bit so she could give him a mild glance. "Well, that is a few people," he admitted.

"I don't want to meet him in front of anyone," she said softly. "It will be awkward enough as it is. I don't want to have to worry about what everyone else is thinking, or to put on a face for them. I... this is the man I have to live with for the rest of my life, Erchirion. Is it too much to ask that we begin our lives together out of the public eye?"

"No, it is not," Erchirion admitted. "You are right. Tell me how you would like to meet him, and I will do my best to arrange it."

"In the gardens would be nice," she said wistfully, and then grinned suddenly. "By the roses."

He sighed. "Lothíriel, you are a hopeless romantic."

"No, Erchirion, I am a hopeful romantic," she corrected him. "Now more than ever, since Father arranged my marriage." She said this last quietly, almost to herself.

"Does it bother you?" her brother asked gently.

Lothíriel realized they had come to a stop and stepped out of the middle of the street. "I did agree to it," she said. She looked at the ground and opened her palm in a gesture of what-have-you. "I understand the reasons. The Rohirrim need hope and food, and this is the easiest way to give them both. Without offending their stiff-necked pride." She paused. "What I don't understand is why Éomer King can't just accept the supplies from Gondor. He is king."

"He doesn't want to begin his reign seeming dependent on Gondor," Erchirion explained patiently. They'd had this discussion before, but she still did not agree that the reasons made sense. "It could be troublesome. With a King in Gondor again at last, the Rohirrim may fear an attempt to bring them under the power of the South. Éomer's plans to renew the Oath of Cirion are not helping the situation."

"If their children are starving, they ought to have more important things to worry about than pride and politics," Lothíriel retorted. "Do they not remember the Pelennor Fields? Don't they realize all of Gondor is in their debt?"

Erchirion raised his hands in a half-shrug. "Everything you say makes sense, but it is not so easy to put into practice. Maybe you ought to come to the King's council meetings," he added with a laugh. "But this is the easiest way."

"Easiest except for the fatted calf being sent off to the slaughter," she muttered. At Erchirion's look she relented. "All right. I will not call myself that any more."

"Do you really think of yourself that way?"

"No," she admitted. She took a few steps to the nearest stall and began to examine the cloth, talking to it instead of him. "For all my liking for roses and moonlight, I am pragmatic. I know this is not a love match, Erchirion. But you cannot blame me for hoping for some pleasantry."

"Of course not." Her brother sounded stunned. "I'm not quite sure what that has to do with you calling yourself a fatted calf... but," he hurried on, "no one expects that you are sacrificing yourself for duty. Éomer is a good man. You may not swoon over him at your first meeting, like the women in the poems," his gentle teasing elicited a reluctant smile from her, "but I think you will like him very much. And love will come in time."

Lothíriel looked up from the cloth. "I know," she admitted. "Or at least I hope. Sometimes..." she trailed off. "The dog watches of the night are not the best time for optimism. Or romance." She turned to the merchant, who had been politely not listening. "Five ells, please," she said, fingering in her belt purse for coins. "Anyway," she added to her brother, "I never really liked the poems where the women swooned." She accepted the carefully tied bundle from the merchant and they walked on. "Until I actually meet him, this is all moot. Moonlight and roses, or not."

"He's in the city now. It won't be long," Erchirion said. "Lothíriel, where is this shop you're looking for? That wasn't it back there, was it?"

"No, it's--" She stopped talking and walking at the same time, and after a second of stunned immobility, whirled around. The tall blonde man they had just passed had similarly stopped in his tracks and turned, and his eyes were wide. Lothíriel knew she was staring, but her mind seemed to have stopped working. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Erchirion recovered quicker than either of them, saw their shock and stepped forward to bridge the gap. "Éomer King," he said. "My sister, Lothíriel. Lothiriel--"

"Éomer King," she said. "Yes. I noticed." Her voice sounded odd to her own ears. Somehow she managed a curtsy, and found her tongue. "Welcome to Minas Tirith, my lord."

"Thank you, my lady." His voice was lighter than she would have expected, and had no trace of an accent.

Further words failed her startled brain. Instead, she just looked at him. In place of the forbidding warrior she had been half-consciously nerving herself to meet she saw a young man, younger than she would have expected, with open features and compelling blue eyes that displayed his surprise. He had the bright golden hair of his kinsmen, and he was taller and broader in the shoulders than Erchirion. He was not at all what she had expected.

She realized that he was staring just as much as she was, and that they were beginning to attract strange looks from the passers-by. Erchirion gestured to a nearby building. "Shall we go inside and sit down?" Then a quartet of Rohír walked around the corner and came up behind their king, who snapped out of his reverie when one of them questioned him in his native tongue.

He replied in the same language, and she caught her name. "Lady Lothíriel," he said in Westron, "my captain-second, Ealric, and his men, Hlofgar, Osbeorn and Weardric."

She met four nearly identical assessing gazes as she inclined her head in greeting, and thought that they were unconsciously or consciously judging her suitability for their sovereign. Then Ealric smiled. "It is a pleasure, my lady."

"Thank you," she murmured.

Erchirion led them all without resistance into the building, which proved to be a genteel tavern of some sort. The King's men seated themselves at a nearby table; their liege pulled out a chair for her before seating himself across from her. Erchirion went off to buy some drinks, leaving her alone with her betrothed. She stared at the rough wooden surface of the table before looking back up. "Are you enjoying the city?" she asked.

"Yes." He cleared his throat. "Yes, I am. It is a much pleasanter experience than the last time I was here."

"I imagine it is," she murmured. There was another pause. "How is your sister?"

"She's well. How is your family?"

With chagrin, she thought that they were having the most stilted conversation in the history of the concept. "My parents are in good health, and my brothers..." Erchirion reappeared and slid her a mug of strong-smelling dark liquid. She sniffed it and blinked as the fumes made her eyes water, and said the first thing that came to mind. "Well, this one is apparently trying to get me drunk."

The King looked startled, and she belatedly realized what she had said. At least no one could accuse her of sticking to formalities now! But then he said, "I can't recall ever trying to get Éowyn drunk, but I suppose sibling affection can take many forms." She stifled a laugh.

The conversation stalled, Erchirion seeming content to sit back and sip his ale, downing the alcohol without a shudder. She didn't know what to say. The questions she really wanted to ask-- _How will we get along? Will you be a good husband? Who _are _you?_-- were hardly polite social fare. And her betrothed was studying her; she could feel his gaze on her even when she looked away.

Finally her brother asked, "What brings you to Minas Tirith early, Éomer?"

He didn't look away from her as he answered, "I wanted to meet Lothíriel."

She choked, almost spit her ale back into the cup, swallowed it quickly, and coughed fiercely as her eyes and throat burned. Erchirion pounded her on the back. "Breathe air, swallow liquid!" he said, sounding worried.

"Yes," she managed to get out in a strangled voice. "Yes, I figured that one out, too." A few more bouts of coughing cleared her throat and her lungs, and she wiped her eyes. The King looked startled and even a little disturbed.

"Lothiriel, what's wrong? I thought you wanted to meet Éomer," Erchirion said. "Granted, this isn't a moonlit rose garden--"

"I just swallowed wrongly," she said hastily, to keep him from saying anything else. She loved him dearly, but this meeting was difficult enough without him giving the King the idea that he had disappointed her expectations from the very beginning. But by the King's face, he apparently already had.

"I see," he said slowly. Then he added, "I suppose we could still contrive a moonlit meeting, but we'd have to convince your brother to forget this morning."

She put her mug down and looked at him carefully. His face was completely straight, and his tone had been serious, but there was a tiny gleam lurking in his eyes. "As well as your guard, my lord," she said, suddenly feeling a good deal less apprehensive about the entire betrothal arrangement.

He winced. "My lady, would you be very kind?"

She frowned. "Yes, of course, what is it."

"_Don't_," he stressed, "call me 'my lord'. Or 'Éomer King'. Or 'Your Majesty'. Or..."

"Éomer the Great, Terror of Orcs and Uruks?" she suggested blandly.

He looked at her plaintively. "No one warned me that you were cruel."

"Oh, very cruel. I'm a regular Dol Amroth fishwife." Erchirion snorted into his mug. "But," she said, ignoring her brother loftily while pretending to consider, "I suppose I can grant this one request."

"You are very good, my lady." His grin made something funny happen in the region of her heart.

"Nay, if I am not to call you my lord, you must not call me my lady."

"Done," he agreed, and extended his hand for them to seal the bargain. "Done, Lothíriel."

There was another short silence, though this one was much less awkward. Then Éomer said, "Your father says you like to ride?" She nodded, not sure how she felt about her father and her betrothed discussing her. Why had she not had someone she could ask about him?

"I hear you like to ride in Rohan, too," she said.

"We make time for it occasionally," he agreed. This time it was Erchirion who choked on his ale. They both watched him with concern, but he recovered quickly. "Shall we go for a ride, soon?"

"I would enjoy that. On one condition," she added.

His mouth quirked up. "Name your condition."

"That you grant me a race." She smiled at him.

Erchirion laughed. "You cannot keep Lothíriel from a horse for more than two days. She can beat any of us with her hands tied behind her back." His expression was warm with pride.

"Then I look forward to the challenge," Éomer said, the corners of his mouth turning up.

Erchirion looked carefully from one of them to the other and stood abruptly. "Excuse me." He raised his glass in salute and went to join Éomer's men at the other table.

Lothíriel stared after him. "I guess he decided he wasn't needed any more."

"I guess so."

"How do your people feel about having a Gondorian queen?" she asked abruptly.

He looked a little surprised, but considered the question. "Not all of them are happy about it," he said honestly. "Most of them are waiting to see what you are like. You will not be universally loved, but my people are fair." Her apprehension must have shown on her face, for he said, "I have no doubts that you will make an excellent queen." His face was completely serious.

His words warmed her like cocoa on a winter's night, but she had to ask, "Why? I have no experience ruling."

"But you have helped your mother oversee your father's household for years, haven't you?" She nodded. "Forgive me for presuming to know you on other people's words, but." He reached forward and took her hands. "From what I know you are tactful, you are kind, you are very intelligent, you are quick-witted, and you are persevering."

"Is that why you wish to marry me?" she asked quietly, making no move to reclaim her hands.

"Among other reasons," he admitted. "You know about the logic behind a marriage alliance between Gondor and Rohan."

"Yes," she said. "Your people are too stiff-necked to take aid--" Her eyes widened. "I did not say that. You did not hear me say that."

"You are right," he said, smiling. "We are stiff-necked. I am afraid you are going to learn that." The smile faded. "Lothíriel, a betrothal was necessary _now_ to aid the first shipments of what we so desperately need. But I have no desire to marry a stranger." His hands tightened on hers. "We can draw this out for as long as you like."

"Thank you," she said softly, and meant it. "I will not deny I have been apprehensive."

"I do not blame you, and I think you are very brave for agreeing to any of this in

the first place."

She lowered her eyes. "You are going to swell my head with all this praise," she said with a little smile.

"That would be a pity. It's a very lovely head." She looked up at him in surprise, and his eyes danced with merriment.

She coughed. "How stand things in Meduseld?"

Obediently, he became serious again. "What do you mean?"

"Is there a chamberlain or a steward? How much needs to be done for the ordering of the household?"

"A... fair amount. At the end of my uncle's reign it was in disorder, though Éowyn has restored much of it. But there is no chamberlain. The day-to-day activities will be yours to order." His hands tightened on hers again. "But please believe I am not just trying to bring you to Meduseld to act as a steward."

"What do you want me to be?" Again the words were out of her mouth before she considered, and they seemed to hang in the air.

"Why, someone to send my council to when they tell me I cannot do something," he said with a straight face.

She stared at him. "But I would have to call you Éomer King then, surely, to puff up your consequence to them," she pointed out.

His brows furrowed. "You are right. Well, if you don't do it in my hearing, you won't swell my head."

She couldn't help laughing. "Why do I get the feeling that your advisors want you to marry so someone else has to put up with you?"

He grinned, and her heart turned over again. "Are you looking forward to the challenge?"

"Fishwife, remember," she reminded him a little breathlessly. "Do not be too eager."

"I will try to keep that in mind." He ran his thumbs over her palms. "I know we hardly know each other," he said quietly. "But I think we will get on well."

"I think you are right," she whispered.

The scrape of chairs heralded Erchirion's return, and Éomer let go of her hands. "It's nearly noon," her brother said. "We must be getting back."

"I don't suppose you have any errands to run that do not require your sister's company?" Éomer asked.

"No, sorry," Erchirion said with a crooked grin. "If you come to our father's house later this afternoon, though, he will be delighted to see you. I will go pay the bill," he added.

As soon as he had turned his back Éomer stood and indicated the door. Bewildered, she followed him. He stopped at the table of his men. "Ealric, distract him," he said in an undertone, and his captain grinned. Then Éomer took her hand again and nearly pulled her out the door.

"What unusual duties you give your men," she said as she hurried to keep up.

"My guard has to be adaptable," he replied with a straight face. He turned into the first small street they came to, and then took the first turning after that, and then another and another until they were in the confusing maze of Minas Tirith's smaller roadways.

"Is there any reason we're going into the back streets?"

"Yes, there is." Finally they reached a quiet, dead-end alley with no windows opening onto it. "I believe," he said, "that you have something that belongs to me."

She felt her heart skip a beat at the warm expression in his eyes. "Really?" she asked. He nodded. "What might that be?"

He took a step forward. "Our betrothal kiss," he whispered. Her eyes widened, and he looked uncertain for the first time. "That is, if you are willing to give it to me."

She tilted her chin up. "And if I decided to hold it in trust instead?"

He stepped forward again. Her back was against the wall now. "Well... I could try to persuade you." Slowly, he grinned. "I am very good at being persuasive."

"I believe it," she said, her heart starting to race. Then, before she lost her nerve, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the mouth.

He was startled, but reacted quickly, and returned the kiss gently, thoroughly, and at great length, his hand cradling the back of her head. When they broke apart she was breathless and his eyes were half-closed. "I think that was more than one," she gasped.

He shook his head. "There's a trick to noticing where one leaves off and the next begins. Pay attention." Well, she was hardly about to do anything else as he bent forward to put his mouth on hers again.

"Yes, quite instructive," she whispered when they finally separated again. "But if I kissed you, and you kissed me... then I still owe you a kiss."

Éomer smiled slowly. "Is that so?" She nodded, and slid her arms around his neck again.

Erchirion cleared his throat loudly at the entrance to the alley, and she was so startled she nearly fell over. Éomer steadied her.

"Éomer," her brother said, "for reasons I can't possibly begin to imagine, your Captain was most insistent on getting my opinion of his sword. Maybe you should send him to a blacksmith." His gaze slid over to her. "Lothíriel, you really should know better than to go into blind alleys with strange men." Was he trying not to laugh?

"We were discussing... debts of honor."

Her brother raised an eyebrow. "From where I was standing, it did not look like you were _discussing_ anything."

She felt her face heat. "It was nonverbal communication."

Erchirion's other eyebrow joined its mate. "_Very_ nonverbal," he said drily. He was definitely fighting a grin.

Beside her, Éomer burst out laughing. "Go with your brother," he said. "I will see you tomorrow." She stepped reluctantly away from his side, but he held on to her hand for a moment longer, letting his fingers trail down her palm. "You are still in my debt," he whispered.

She felt warmth race through her body from their point of contact. "I still owe you a... lesson," she agreed. "In communication."

Erchirion coughed. "I will pretend I did not just hear that." Pointedly, he offered her his arm, and reluctantly she took it and allowed him to lead her out of the alley. But she glanced over her shoulder for one last look at Éomer, and he grinned at her, his eyes warm with a mixture of mirth, merriment and mischief. As they started to turn the corner he called, "What color rose would you like?"

She smiled back. "Whatever color you choose."


	5. Dancing Queen

A/N: To anyone who understands the title, I am sorry. In the words of a famous pirate, "I just couldn't resist, mate."

_I am going out of town, and will resume posting when I return._

_-_

Behind the curtain in the back wall of the dais was a small antechamber with two doors opening out of it. "The treasury," Éomer said, gesturing to one. He opened the other and stood aside to let her go first.

The noise of the wedding feast faded as the massive oaken door closed behind her. The room before her was unexpectedly homey; there was a cheerful fire already going, and two candles burned at the other end of the room. On a low shelf were a few battered books; all but one of the titles were written in Westron, and she knew they had come from Gondor once upon a time. The last book was very slender, and she could barely make out the Sindarin letters on the spine. She knew Éomer had been taught to read that language by his mother, though not to speak it.

Two desks faced opposite walls; one was covered with a scattering of papers and the other was bare except for a few items she recognized from her own trunks. The floor was covered by a woven rug and a large skin of some sort, and the walls by a few tapestries. They did not depict battle scenes as she would have expected, but instead landscapes from Rohan, and, of course, horses. At the foot of the bed stood a massive cedar chest, with two lamps burning on it. On the bed itself-- she swallowed-- was a pretty red-and-blue patterned coverlet.

She must have stared at the bed for too long, because Éomer touched her elbow. "We do not have to consummate our marriage now, or even tonight," he said. "This is not the _péostor ieldu_."

She swallowed. "I admit I would prefer to wait a little." She looked up. "What would you have us do instead, my lord?"

"Talk," he said, "or rest, if you are very tired... or dance."

She blinked. "Dance?" He nodded. "We have been dancing all night."

"Are you tired of it yet?" She considered, and felt a slow smile spread across her face as she looked up to meet his gaze again.

He smiled in return. "Well, then."

Éomer opened the door opposite the one they had entered, that led out to the back of Meduseld. Lothíriel stopped to look at something on his desk, a bundle of letters wrapped in a blue ribbon. The writing was quite familiar, and she touched the top one tentatively. "Are those... mine?"

Éomer nodded. "Rereading them kept me going through the winter."

Taken aback and not sure how to respond, it was a moment before she said, "I enjoyed your letters also, my lord." He smiled encouragingly, and stood back to let her precede him outside.

The stars and the moon were both very bright, and the midsummer air was warm and fragrant, laden with the scent of honeysuckle. Between the hall and the drop-off of the hill was a little space of lawn, occupied by nothing but lush grass. It looked so lush and inviting, and her feet were so sore and pinched, that she bent and unlaced her boots, slipping them off and leaving them by the door.

She stole a glance at the man beside her-- her husband who she knew and yet did not know. They'd intended, and been intended, to meet before that night; but at the end of the previous summer she'd cut her foot on a rotting crab, been stricken with a bad infection, and been unable to travel for weeks. Then winter in the Riddermark had been hard, and spring had brought heavy floods, and Éomer had been unable to leave Edoras. Spring had turned quickly into summer, and then she'd been packing her possessions and preparing for the wedding.

But they'd written many letters back and forth; his were in her trunks, kept as carefully as those bundled on his desk. At first she'd been hesitant about writing to him, and she'd sent her first letter in much trepidation. After all, he was renowned as a fierce warrior, and all that she'd heard had made him seem grim and dour. But his reply had shown that he had a well-developed sense of humor and a way with words, and their correspondence had flourished. She had enjoyed getting to know the man behind the legend; seeing the weekly courier racing towards the castle of Dol Amroth had eventually become the high point of her life.

"Do your feet hurt too badly to dance?"

She looked up, startled out of her reverie. "No, my lord," she assured him. "The grass feels good."

He offered her his hand. "You called me Éomer quite nicely in your letters, you know," he reminded her with a warm smile.

She smiled back, feeling a bit of her tension draining away. "So I did." They couldn't hear the music from the hall, and she wondered as she set her hand in his how they would dance. But both of them knew the steps, and they quickly found the same rhythm as they stepped together and then apart. Without music it was a bit awkward at first, but she found concentrating on the movements oddly peaceful. She also found herself concentrating on Éomer.

What did one say to one's newly-wedded husband? She was aware of the breadth of his shoulders, aware of his proximity, aware of his scent-- aware of his body, yet not in a way that made her uneasy. In fact it was comforting to have the phantom man of the letters solidified.

She remembered some of their banter from the letters. "The weather is fine," she ventured.

His eyes crinkled, and she knew he remembered. "As is the harvest," he agreed. "What shall we talk about next?"

"Horses, of course," she said, grinning now. "And then the sea."

He laughed. "I think we exhausted those topics in our first two letters." His expression grew serious. "Was it a hard trip from Minas Tirith? I didn't even get a chance to ask you."

"Not until we had to make up the time we lost at Aldburg." A summer storm had struck just as they arrived in the courtyard, and some of the Gondorian ladies' mounts had been spooked by the lightning. In the resulting pandemonium, enough horses had been injured to make them unable to proceed the next day. "That was a bit unpleasant."

"Your brother said you kept your seat quite creditably," Éomer said.

Lothíriel nodded. "I know better than to ride a high-strung horse," she explained. "Rhosc is not much to look at, but he's steady."

"In the morning I'll take you down to the stables and introduce you to Firefoot." During their correspondence she had teased him about the one creature in Middle-earth who could gainsay him. "Then perhaps we can go for a ride?"

She smiled. "I'd like that." The vast green plains had looked so inviting as they had hurried through on the way to Edoras. You could race through them for hours and still not come to an end, and lose yourself in the tall grass with only the sky for company.

"Has Gimli said anything to you?" Éomer said after a moment, as they continued moving down the lawn.

Lothíriel frowned. "We were introduced, that's all I remember. What do you mean?"

Éomer looked faintly embarrassed. "He has taken to teasing me for my predilection for, eh... dark-haired women," he admitted. "I was hoping he had not approached you, too."

Lothíriel blinked. "Predilection for dark-haired women?"

"Have you not heard the story?"

"No, tell me."

They reached the edge of the hill and Éomer released her hand and sat down, then stretched out on his back to stare up at the stars. "The first time I met Gimli I nearly decapitated him." Lothíriel's eyes widened. "He, Aragorn and Legolas told me they had come from Dwimordene."

"Lóthlorien?" she asked.

Éomer nodded. "Among our people that wood has ever been rumored as a source of phantoms and illusions, inhabited by a golden witch... and with Gríma's hold over my uncle, I was not about to let more sorcerers walk our lands." His eyes narrowed. "Tempers flared. Things would have gone ill if Aragorn had not been cool-headed." He was silent for several minutes, lost in memory, only muttering "What would have happened..."

"Dark-haired women?" Lothíriel prompted him.

The corner of his mouth turned up. "Gimli took exception to my words about the Lady of the Golden Wood and made me swear that if I ever saw her, I would admit she was the most beautiful being I had ever seen."

"Be careful, Éomer," she warned him, stifling a grin of her own. "You would not tell me of a rival on the very day of our wedding, would you?" But his amusement vanished instantly, making her blink. "Éomer, it was a joke."

"You have not been listening to _that woman_, have you?" he asked quietly.

"No..." she said slowly. "I do not even know who _that woman_ is."

He grimaced. "Lady Baléthiva of the Westmark." She was about to ask for more explanation when he continued. "I made the mistake of dancing with her twice at my coronation, and now she will not be convinced that I am not head-over-heels in love with her." His eyes narrowed. "Or else she refuses to be convinced. She has spread rumors that I married you out of duty... as a noble sacrifice for the sake of my country."

Lothíriel thought back to the letters. The warm, free, easy talk that had flowed from his pen had not been that of a man in love with someone else, and the Rohírrim were not deceptive. "Is she dark-haired?" she asked.

It was Éomer's turn to blink. "No, why?"

"Then I have nothing to fear." It worked; the tension left his face, and the corners of his mouth turned up again. She lay down on the ground next to him, and then after a moment hesitantly shifted so she could put her head on his shoulder. His arm wrapped around the top of her back, and she relaxed. "The story?" she murmured.

"I met Lady Galadriel," he said, and paused. "She was not the most beautiful being I had ever seen."

Lothíriel looked up at him. "And Gimli let you live? He seems quite a determined man. Dwarf."

"I pleaded an exception, that Queen Arwen Undómiel was fairer, and said that I would defend my statement against any who disputed it. Gimli agreed to forgo the combat."

Lothíriel let her mouth quirk up. "And Queen Undómiel is dark-haired."

"Yes."

Lothíriel felt fatigue pulling at her eyelids as she lay there, but she fought it off, thinking of the story. "That was why I was hesitant to write to you at first," she said.

"What?" Éomer sat up. "Because of the queen?"

"No." She sat up, and shook her head. "What you said about nearly killing Gimli. Because of your temper," she clarified.

Éomer's expression turned serious. "I hope you were not afraid of me."

"No," she said again. "But you did seem... formidable. At first," she added. "But not after your second letter mentioned that you had the time to write because the healer had confined you inside after Firefoot threw you."

Éomer groaned. "It is a wonder I have any respect left, the way he behaves." He opened his eyes again. "Lothíriel, the contest between Gimli and I does not bother you, does it?" He grinned somewhat wryly. "It was not diplomatic of me to spend our wedding night singing the praises of another woman."

"I am not bothered," she said, smiling to reassure him. "It is a fact that the Queen is more beautiful than I am. There is no point in denying it."

"But you are also a queen," he said softly. "And you are my wife, not she."

"I had noticed that, too."

"And if Gimli were here," Éomer's voice was barely more than a whisper now, "I think I would have to tell him that I had found another more beautiful in my eyes than the Golden Lady." Gently, he brushed a stray lock of hair out of her face. "But I would be shallow indeed if I sought to marry only the most beautiful woman I could, and not the most wonderful."

"I..." she began, and then ran out of words.

He smiled slowly. "Speaking of being bothered," he murmured, "would you be very bothered if I...?"

She shook her head, and her heart sped up to beat in double time as Éomer put his hand on her waist and his other on the side of her face. Her eyes drifted closed, and she felt him hesitate just a fingersbreadth away, and then their lips met.

She'd never been kissed before, but she understood immediately why it was such a desirable activity. A warm current of sensual pleasure tugged at her body as his mouth moved against hers, and her nose was filled with his unfamiliar but not unpleasant scent. She tilted her head forward and began to kiss him back. Encouraged, he shifted his hand from her face to the back of her head.

She liked this; she liked it very much. She liked the warmth of his body against hers, and she liked the way his touch set her at ease even as it made her want to shiver. She liked that he was not trying to dominate her, or overwhelm her senses, but simply show her the pleasure to be had in a kiss. She liked--

He broke away and looked at her, and what he saw there must have reassured him, for he smiled before leaning forward to kiss her again. This time it was less tentative and more teasing; his lips left her mouth and trailed down her jaw towards her neck, and her head arched back involuntarily as she thought foggily that it was not fair that she could not kiss him back like this. She turned her head to do just that, and his hand tightened on her waist. Before long it was as if she was approaching some brink, and she leaned into Éomer, enjoying the feeling--

--and then the metaphorical loss of balance became literal, and the next thing she knew they were both pitching sideways towards the edge of the lawn. She frantically grabbed at something to stop her fall, but her hands came away with only dirt and rocks and she tumbled down the steep slope.

Fortunately Éomer had let go of her or she would have been crushed as she rolled over and over, her head and arms and legs striking sharp rocks and her back and ribs finding dull ones. She heard a series of Rohirric curses as Éomer fell, but had no breath herself for anything but gasps of pain. She was picking up momentum as she rolled over a particularly large branch, hit her head on the ground, and felt another drop-off approaching—and then she rolled over one final time before landing with her legs in the cold stream.

She stared up at the stars, too winded to move. "Ouch," she said when she finally got her breath back.

Éomer groaned beside her. "Are you hurt?"

"I think," she said dazedly, "I think I broke--"

"You broke what?"

"I think I broke my pride." With that, her mind seemed to return, along with a complete catalogue of all the bruises and cuts she had just sustained.

She heard running footsteps. "My lord! My lady!" It was a guard. "Are you all right?"

"Lothíriel?" Éomer asked.

"I... I'll be all right." Nothing was broken, and nothing gave off the sharp pain of a sprain.

"I think we will be," Éomer said. "Our recovery would probably be speeded if you could contrive to forget you saw us."

"Yes, my Lord King." She could tell that the guard was grinning even without seeing his face; then she heard retreating footsteps.

As she lay, still looking up at the night sky, she felt an irrepressible urge to giggle; then laughter began to bubble uncontrollably out of her. She was cold, she was dirty, she was soaked from the waist down, her hair was full of twigs and sticks, and she would be black and blue by morning. The whole situation was ridiculous. If she did not stop laughing in a moment Éomer would think she was hysterical.

"Lothíriel?" he asked. She only laughed harder, until her sides started to ache. It felt so good.

"What a wedding night," she said when she could draw breath again.

Éomer started to laugh, too. "I think we can be assured that there has never been another like it." He got up with a half-suppressed oath and came to crouch next to her. "Do you not want to get out of the stream?" Cautiously, she sat up. His arm slid around her back to help her shift over to the bank. "Are you sure you're not hurt?"

"I would not say I'm not _hurt_," she began.

"Then maybe I'd better check." He lifted her sodden dress up to her knee and gently felt her foot and her calf. His light touch tickled for the most part, though she winced as his fingers brushed sore skin. "Just a few scrapes," he said, moving to feel her other leg.

When he'd assured himself that her legs were mostly undamaged, he took her hand and turned it over; but instead of examining her arm he kissed the inside of her wrist. "Nothing there," he murmured, and slid his lips further up her arm. His touch left a trail of warmth that quickly dulled the edge of the pain. "Nor there... nor there." His mouth worked its way up to the crook of her elbow as she felt her breathing hasten, and then he switched to her other arm.

"Mmm," she said softly, her eyes drifting closed again, as he kissed her other wrist. She struggled to retain her train of thought. "Éomer, are you hurt?"

"Nothing to mention," he said. He kissed her forearm and then the inside of her elbow. His hand brushed over her upper arm to her shoulder as his lips moved tantalizingly slowly up the column of her neck to halt right below her ear. It was all she could do to keep from gasping; the touch of his mouth filled her with a heretofore unknown urge, like a faint phantom ache all over her body.

"I think you've examined my neck quite thoroughly," she managed to say.

His lips drifted down her jawline. "I wouldn't want to be careless. The neck is a delicate structure." He kissed the corner of her mouth and then, gently and lingeringly, her lips.

She closed her eyes as a soft noise of satisfaction escaped her throat. With the tiny part of her mind still dedicated to rational thought reminding her of their injuries, she carefully slid her arms around his neck, letting him pull her against him until there was no space between them. Sensation sang through her body; her only thought was how wonderful it was.

Her pulse was racing again as their kiss grew more-- just _more_, and she surrendered to it wholeheartedly. All pain was forgotten in this pleasure, and the warm feeling that filled her was not just in her body but in her heart, too. This was a Good Thing, and she wanted more.

Then Éomer was leaning sideways, drawing her down with him. Their lips barely parted as they eased down to the ground, and she did not notice the cold or the wet. Her hands tightened on the back of his head. His started to roam her body, moving over her breasts and her waist, leaving a trail of sensitized skin behind. She felt as if she was going to melt or maybe just float out of her body all together.

With a gasp she forced herself to break away. "Éomer," she said raggedly. "If we're going to continue, I think we'd better go inside." He rolled on to his back and stared up at the sky, panting.

"Inside," he repeated when he had breath to talk. He looked at her. "Do you wish to go inside?"

Slowly, she nodded. "Yes," she murmured. Then she winced, for without the bright glowing blaze of Éomer's kisses to distract it her body began to notice again the little flames of pain.

"I have some salve," he said, "that... one of us... can put on you." Her heart sped up. "It should help," he murmured.

"That would be... nice." She shivered. His words were not helping her regain control of her body.

Finally he sat up and stared at the hill, running his fingers through his hair. "We have to get back up that."

"Is it less steep around the sides?"

He shook his head. "No." After a moment he sighed and stood up. "Come on, love," he said, keeping her hand to help her up.

But Lothíriel sat as if she'd been turned to stone. "What?"

"I said, come on--" his face took on a stricken look. "Did I say that out loud?"

She nodded, not trusting her own voice as a flush of warmth spread through her.

"Well," he said resignedly, "Rohírrim don't lie, so I'd better make a clean breast of it." He squatted down again, still holding on to her hand. "I fell in love with you through your letters." His thumb gently rubbed over her palm. "I've been waiting for you to come with less patience than I've ever waited for anything before." He looked up at her again, his expression rueful. "I've spoken too soon, haven't I?"

Slowly, she shook her head, feeling as if she'd unwrapped a wonderful gift. "I think you spoke at just the right time," she whispered. Surprise and then delight suffused his features, and he stroked her cheek with his free hand before leaning forward to kiss her.

But he stopped halfway, and a little noise of protest escaped her. "If I kiss you again, we'll never get back inside," he said. She had to admit he was right, and allowed him to pull her to her feet. "Come on... love," he whispered, and despite what he'd said his lips brushed the top of her head.

It took them three tries to get up the hill, because much of the grass had been torn or loosened by their precipitous descent. That meant two more bone-jarring, skin-scraping falls, though at least neither of them were from the top. At last Lothíriel scrambled-- rather undignifiedly-- over the lip of the hill, and turned to help Éomer over the edge. But his greater weight started to drag her forward, and she had to dig her feet into the grass to keep from falling again. He made it to the top and grabbed her by the waist just as her head reached the edge.

For a moment they just lay there, panting; then Lothíriel carefully sat up and surveyed herself with wry dismay. Her hair had come out of its braid and lay like a tangled mass of rope around her shoulders; her blue dress was torn and marked with grass stains; her forearms were dirty, and so were her feet. She was covered in scratches and scrapes. "I don't look much like a queen," she said, her mouth turning up, and then she looked at Éomer and had to laugh, for he wasn't in much better shape. "We look like a pair of children who've been out making mischief." She looked down at herself again. "I'll have to have a wash before we... go to bed." She felt her face heat a little. "I'd hate to get the sheets dirty."

"A good idea," Éomer agreed. "The kitchen will have heated many tubs of hot water for the feast. I'm sure they can spare one."

She was grateful that his voice betrayed no hint of amusement at her embarrassment, but she fingered the sparse grass nervously. "Éomer?" she said tentatively. "We can-- We can go slowly, can't we?"

"As slowly as you like," he promised, and the real tenderness and compassion in his tone finally prompted her to look up again. He kissed her forehead; she rested her head against his shoulder, and he put his arm around her waist. For a moment she just leaned on him, and then he shifted. "Almost there," he said, helping her up one last time. He grinned. "Or would you like me to carry you?"

"And if I said yes?" she said in the same teasing tone. In reply Éomer bent down and picked her up easily, startling the breath out of her. "Éomer!" His arms shifted to hold her more securely, and she decided not to protest any more; instead she rested her head against his chest and closed her eyes in contentment as he carried her over the threshold and shut the door.

_péostor ieldu_-- literally, dark age


	6. A Little Closer To The Edge, My Lord

_A/N: After this, there is one more chapter. _

_You may find this chapter unrealistic, but please remember that it was written in fun._

_-_

Lothíriel had been compelled to do unpleasant things by her status as the Prince's daughter before, but never had she so regretted being dutiful. "Take Éomer King down to the docks and show him around for an hour or two," her father had said, and she had obliged. But what she hadn't realized until it was too late was just how aggravating the King of Rohan could be.

He took long strides so that she nearly had to run to keep up, and looked at everything around him with disinterest and condescension. Twenty-three ships she showed him, the pride of Dol Amroth, ending with her father's vessel, _Aearmeldis_. At none of them did he do more than glance; when she took him aboard the _Aearmeldis_, he touched the railing, looked up at the mast, grunted, and said it was nice. Her temper getting the better of her, she promptly dragged him through all three decks, making sure she pointed out every insignificant detail, like the clever placing of the shelves and the superior knots on the hammocks.

"And what do you think of our ships, then?" she asked when they were back on the docks, determined to strike up a conversation just to spite him.

He shrugged. "They're pretty enough, but I cannot see any advantage over horses. Boats are flimsy, soulless, wooden things. You can't trust them like you can a horse. Besides, you must have to coddle them, care for them and repair them constantly."

She suppressed a tempting desire to point out that she had never had to shovel out a boat's droppings, nor feed one, and instead said sweetly that she had not realized horses were capable of swimming such long distances.

"Not very long distances, but anywhere worth going can be reached by a horse."

Her worse half was steadily gaining control of her. "Like Mount Doom," she agreed pleasantly, drawing on her brother's recent tales of Mithrandir for inspiration. "And the top of Orthanc. And Zirakzigil."

He looked confused, and then his eyes narrowed. Before he could speak, though, she went on, "But tell me about the plains of Rohan! I've heard they are quite a sight."

"They are," he agreed, "much better than the sea, for they change with the seasons, from green to gold to brown."

_The sea changes, you dolt!_ she thought furiously. When the King looked puzzled she realized her face must have betrayed her, and schooled her features back into interested, pleasant neutrality.

Apparently disregarding whatever he had noticed, he went on. "It stretches for many miles, and always smells sweet and green. Not like fish," he added with a faintly superior smile. She twitched. "You can ride for days and come across no one else. And in the spring the plains sport the colors of Rohan, for the grass blossoms white and light pink-- lady's colors," he laughed. "And what is more, no one has ever been found wrecked at the bottom of it."

_Dignity be dratted_. "Thank you," she said with exceeding sweetness. "I am so very grateful to you for correcting my dreadful ignorance. Until now I had not realized just how much I am to be pitied for living by the sea instead of on the plains."

The self-satisfaction slid off his face, and his eyes narrowed. "Now wait just a minute, lady..."

"I am in your debt for making clear to me how inferior we sea-loving worms are

to you magnificent mounted _gods_," she added, knowing she was laying it on too thick, but no longer caring.

"Lady, I would appreciate not being mocked." His voice was a low rumble, and his eyes glinted.

"And I would appreciate not being condescended to!" she snapped. "Have you ever even set _foot_ off dry ground onto a boat that wasn't anchored or tied up? What on earth gives you the right to decide that horses are superior to ships?"

The bafflement on his face faded into anger. "No, I have never had the pleasure of sailing," he said shortly. "And as to what gives me the right to decide, Lady, I am not without eyes, nor am I a man of ill judgment. I can clearly see the ways in which horses are preferable to boats."

"Then you have the judgment of a--!" She bit off the rest but regretted the other words as soon as they left her mouth.

His face darkened as he stepped towards her. "Lady, you are clearly overwrought with the heat. Allow me to escort you back to some place out of the sun."

With those words something gave way inside her, and she realized that she had never been so angry, but she no longer cared. "Because I disagree with you I must be overwrought? I thank you for revealing your opinion of female intellect! Or is my entire city also _overwrought_ for preferring boats to horses?"

His face flushed under his tan. "I thank you for a most _instructive_ afternoon, Lady. But clearly it has been too much for you." He took her arm, apparently meaning to lead her back to the city by force, and when she tried to free herself his grip wrenched her shoulder blade.

"Let go!" She felt tears of pain in her eyes, and her nose stung.

"Not until you stop acting like a child in a tantrum!" he retorted.

"Tantrum?" she snapped. "Oh, no, my lord." In a desperate bid to free herself she stepped down hard on his instep. When he dropped her arm in surprise and hurt, she shoved against his solid bulk with all the force she could muster. "_This_ is a tantrum."

She had meant only to keep him away from her, but realized even as she did so that she had pushed too hard. In the instant between shoving him off the pier, and ducking away from the splash, Lothíriel wondered fleetingly if she'd made a mistake. But she was too furious to consider the answer. She waited for him to surface with some trepidation, but when his sodden golden head broke through the water, all regrets vanished. As he brushed his hair out of his eyes and coughed a few times, she watched coolly, her arms folded across her chest and her hand rubbing her aching shoulder.

He looked up, and the sheer anger on his face almost made her take a step back as he treaded water. "Lady," he said, his voice deadly calm, "if I did not wish to insult your noble mother, I would think she had cuckolded your father. With an orc."

She gasped, feeling heat rush into her cheeks. "How _dare_ you!" Her heart swelled with fury on her mother's behalf.

"How dare I? How dare you! You shoved me into the water!" He grabbed on to the end of the dock and easily lifted himself out on to it.

She backed up a few steps just in case. "You were manhandling me! You nearly pulled my arm out of its socket."

A gratifying flash of surprise-- at least he had not done it on purpose-- crossed his face, but his features quickly turned belligerent again. "Then you should not have struggled."

"And let you lead me back through the city like a dog on a leash? I am not one of your Riders to be treated however you choose!" In the back of her mind guilt was sinking in, and she cringed at the thought of her behavior towards her family's honored guest. But then she remembered the implication about her mother, that he had been so careful _not_ to say, and remorse vanished.

"No, what you are is a spoiled brat."

"And you are a puffed-up, overblown King with an ego like a rotting, bloated jellyfish," she snapped.

He stepped forward again, and she retreated, feeling the edge of the dock beneath her feet. "Your temper leaves much to be desired," he said, his voice cold with anger.

"_My_ temper?" Lothíriel repeated in disbelief. "You nearly killed our King the first time you met him."

Éomer's eyes narrowed, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. "I nearly killed Gimli," he corrected, a little mulishly. "After he called me witless."

She stared at him. "He called you witless," she echoed flatly, and then her voice rose again in agitation. "If I did the same, would I suffer the same fate?"

"Take care," Éomer rumbled. "You are walking a dangerous line here."

She tilted her chin up. "Is that a yes?"

His eyes flashed. His hands grasped her arms and shoved her backwards. She stumbled and felt herself tip over the edge, but she was not going down without a fight. As he started to let go she reached up and grabbed his arms, and they both tumbled into the water. His bulk pushed her far under the surface and his knee dug into her stomach, making her inhale water, but she freed herself quickly and swam to the surface.

Éomer King was coughing and spluttering. "You _vixen!_" he spat when he saw her.

"Oh? Which one of us tried to push the other in?" she retorted when she could breathe again.

"You, to begin with."

"I was completely justified!"

"And I wasn't?"

She glared at the hateful man as they both treaded water. "No!" His whole body tensed, and she took a precautionary stroke backwards in case he came after her, but they were in her element and he knew it. He would never be able to catch her. "You have insulted my city, my people, my intelligence, and my _family,_"-- her eyes flashed-- "and tried to treat me like chattel. You--"

The sound of hoofbeats made her break off her tirade and look up. There on the dock, reining in, was her father, her three brothers, the king's marshal, the captain of his guard, and five members each of the Dol Amroth and Rohírric guards. Her heart sank until it could have served as an anchor on the seabed below.

Éomer shot her a look that would have struck her dead had it been tangible; she clamped her lips together, tilted her chin up and narrowed her eyes. Her father surveyed the situation with some surprise. "Oh, dear," he said mildly.

_Aearmeldis_-- "ocean friend"

Zirakzigil-- the peak of the Silvertine mountain, where Gandalf slew the Balrog


	7. Picture of Love

_A/N: A picture is worth a thousand words, so here are ten drabbles to finish things off._

_I hope you've enjoyed the anthology, and thanks for reading!_

-

The ache of burying Théoden King-- _dearer than father_-- eased when Éomer betrothed his sister to the man she loved, and saw her face radiant as the sun.

He was not the only one pleased. "No niggard are you, Éomer, to give thus to Gondor the fairest thing in your realm," Aragorn said, smiling, teasing him gently.

But Éomer was not looking at Éowyn; his eye had been caught by a black-haired woman whom he had somehow never noticed before. "Mmm," he said, without looking away. "Perhaps we could trade."

Aragorn turned, and followed his gaze, and started to laugh.

-

Only the flailing woman's head and one hand were visible over the torrent as she held on for dear life to a slender rope, surfacing and then disappearing again. After a second of startled immobility, Éomer nudged Firefoot forward and plunged into the water.

She must not have heard them coming, for her resistance nearly unhorsed him; only by an undignified scramble did he get her up in front of him. She coughed and half-turned, and he noticed wide, grey eyes framed by long black lashes; then she scowled and demanded, "Why did you do that? I nearly had it!"

-

Lothíriel stepped into the stable, listened, and followed faint splashing sounds to a man partially immersed in a rain barrel. "Hello," she said doubtfully. "Do you know where I can find Éomer King?" King Elessar's prized mare had suddenly gone into heat, and the Rohír's stallion was breaking down the fence to get to her.

She was showered with stray droplets as he straightened, and she blinked. His bare chest was heavily muscled, his sodden hair was nonetheless golden, and he was as tall as her father. He wiped his face on a piece of sacking. "What do you want?"

-

Pounding hoofbeats alerted every man in the clearing and hands went to sword hilts. It was only one horse, Éomer realized, and exchanged a glance with Éothain; was something wrong in the city?

The first shock was that the rider was a woman; the second was that she was bent almost double over the horse's mane, barely keeping her seat, as blood ran down from a long, deep gash across her chest. As the out-of-control horse careened by he grabbed for the reins, and nearly fell before Éothain caught the bridle.

"Bear," the woman gasped, and collapsed into Éomer's arms.

-

Lothíriel closed the door behind her with relief. She was glad to be quit of the taxing feast; the newly-arrived Rohírrim had not appeared, and consequently it had been a disappointment.

She looked up. Shock paralyzed her body, forcing her eyes wide and her mouth open; then she found her breath with a startled gasp. "_What_ are you doing in my rooms?" she demanded furiously, heart pounding.

The strange golden-haired man sprawled on her bed woke, blinked, saw her, sat bolt upright and stared at her blankly. "This is my room," he said irritably. "Who in Bema's name are you?"

-

He saw her first as a dark head next to a golden one. He'd come to the gardens to seek out his sister, but he stood for a moment and looked at the picture the two women made. They sat on a bench framed by trees in white blossom, and the blooms had drifted down and rested on their shoulders like delicate snow. They were bent over a book, and the gentle breeze stirred their skirts.

Then he heard Éowyn's laughter, a sound rare for too long, and felt a swell of gratitude towards the unknown woman, whoever she was.

-

The boy dashed heedlessly out into the street. Lothíriel wasted no time with cries but ran after him, pushing him out of the way just as the careening cart reached them. Then she was bowled over and her head struck something hard, and everything went dark.

She opened her eyes to see a golden head swimming in her vision. The mouth was moving, but the words were barely audible above the ringing in her ears. Closing her eyes against the dizziness, she finally caught an understandable inquiry. "Can you speak?" a man demanded.

"Is the boy all right?" she whispered.

-

"Look, it's Éomer King!" her cousin exclaimed. Though the streets were filled with people cheering the Rohirrim, who had returned for the body of Théoden King, from her father's balcony they could see everything.

Lothíriel frowned. The Lady Éowyn rode in front, but alone. "Where?"

Anaríel pointed to a tall man with flowing golden hair. "Isn't he lovely?"

"Mmm." Lothíriel had to agree that her cousin's infatuation made a lot more sense now. "He's not bad-looking." As Anaríel turned to stare at her in disbelief, her brows furrowed. "Who's the woman beside him?"

"Lady Aelgifu," Anaríel sighed wistfully. "His betrothed."

-

Lothíriel laid her flowers on the grave and stifled a sigh. So many good men had fallen on the Pelennor Fields. Too many. "Your children have grown tall," she whispered. "The babe your wife carried when you went away looks just like you." Her throat closed.

A noise made her look up and she saw one of the Rohír standing at the entrance to the memorial. Her cheeks warmed. "The captain of my father's guard," she explained. "He was... very kind to me when I was a child."

The man nodded. "My uncle's standard-bearer lies beside him," he said softly.

-

"I am _not_ in love with Lady Everild!" Éomer exclaimed with exasperation. He looked around, but the redhead was thankfully nowhere in sight among the crowds. Still, he lowered his voice. "I am not, Éowyn." But she merely raised a single, infuriating eyebrow; Faramir raised his hands in a gesture of neutrality, knowing better than to get involved. The third spectator watched curiously.

Afterwards, Éomer always maintained that desperate measures had been called for and Éowyn's expression had driven him to it. "See?" he said, and grabbed the black-haired woman next to him and kissed her firmly on the lips.


End file.
